


Flawed Perfection

by bluesapphireprincess



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Dark Hermione, Minor Character Death, Multi, Possessive Tom Riddle, Powerful Hermione, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesapphireprincess/pseuds/bluesapphireprincess
Summary: She wanted to make him pay. She wanted him to understand that underestimating her was a foolish mistake that ensured his doom. She wanted watch him fall and realize in horror where he screwed up and beg for forgiveness he will never be given.





	1. The Battle of Hogwarts

_Saturday, September 20, 2003_

_The Forbidden Forest. Hogwarts_

_Mudblood._

_Filthy. Worthless. Mudblood._ She used to hate that word. She used to find it revolting. But when Malfoy’s scrawny half-dead body lay before her, she was amused. She bent, grabbed his dirty long blond hair and took into his filthy face. Malfoy coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth.

 _Blood_. Funny how it all _looked_ the same, _smelled_ the same, _felt_ the same. Funny how all purebloods and mudbloods blended the same way, how you couldn’t distinguish whose was whose. Funny how those who met their bloody death all look equally ugly and pitiful.

That was how he looked now. _Helpless. Weak. Pathetic._ She almost felt sorry for him - _almost_. But she knew better. Death Eaters ruined her life, killed her family, friends. She _refused_ to feel sorry for one of them.

Malfoy groaned again and raised his head a little. His half-closed eyes fixed on her face, his breathing laboured as he hissed through greeted teeth, “Let go of me, your filthy Mudblood”. “Why, of course, Lucius”, she laughed darkly and pointed her wand at his head. “I hope you will do well in hell”, she smirked, silently casting her the Killing curse. A bright green jet of smoky light shot from the end of her wand. She felt nothing but a thrill of satisfaction as his lifeless body dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.

She threw her head back and looked into the distance. Dozens of corpses already lay lifeless and still, left to settle into the dirt of the fields. She could barely see the Dark Lord’s figure confronting three members of the Order - Kingsley, McGonagall and Lupin. Harry and Ron were nowhere in sight. She prayed they were alive.

A familiar shout drew her attention and she turned to see Luna get hit with a green light of the Bellatrix Killing curse. Furious, Hermione tried to focus all the anger and hatred she felt towards Lestrange as she charged towards her hurling herself onto the witch back. The most painful and slowest death curse had already left her tongue as she jabbbed her wand into the witch throat.

“ _Vindicta Infernale_ ”, she shouted, a ripple of purple-red energy seeping from her wand into the woman’s throat.

Shrinking in agony, Bellatrix tossed Hermione aside. She grunted in pain, collapsing on the ground. The infection already spread across her body as she started writhing on the floor suffering pain that no Cruciatus, however agonizing it might be, could inflict. It was slowly eating her flesh out until nothing but bones and hair were left on the ground. And _blood_.

Hermione failed to notice that people from both sides of the war stopped fighting to silently watch how Voldemort’s most faithful follower met her end with that horrifying yet magnificent curse. Everything went still.

Hermione stood up and turned around grinning madly, “What an awesome ancient spell I picked up in Tibet, don’t you think?” She titled her head, deliberately caressing her wand with the fingers of her left hand, “Maybe anyone else want to experience it?”. Half-insane glint in her eyes, her voice sweet and poisonous as she sighed mocking disappointment, “No? How utterly... _boring_ ”.

Hermione's sense of contentment didn't last long, however. Voldemort cried out in fury and charged her, simultaneously firing off a Killing curse towards his other opponents. Lupin’s dead body hit the ground. The fighting had regained its intensity.

One could have been intimidated by that silent dare to stand up and duel with the Darkest wizard of all time, but not Hermione. Quiet the opposite, actually - she felt excited. That Voldemort had no horcruxes up his sleeves. He was no longer invincible. She had a chance.

Even though she told herself she was perfectly calm, her heart was beating fast and her breathing increased. But once she came closer to him already lifted her wand prepared to cast, everything froze. “No, it couldn’t be...”, she muttered.

And there she heard it, the most beautiful song that couldn’t be mistaken for something else - Phoenix song. _Fawkes_? No, she must have been dreaming. What would Fawkes here in Hogwarts, when Dumbledore was dead. Why would he appear in the middle of the battle?

Time continued to be still as the Phoenix was singing in a way she never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible beauty. His lament song was still echoed in her ears as everything went blank.

* * *

 

Monday, September 20, 1943

Hogwarts

Tom Riddle had a lousy day. The classes were boring, students were, as usual, dull and Abraxas’ chatter made him want to curse his fellow Slytherin “friend” into oblivion.

So there he was, always a perfect Prefect, wondering in the Forbidden Forest, seeking some solitude. He had been walking silently in thick grass lost all track of time.

He was ready to return to the castle when suddenly he heard a loud CRACK followed by a bright orange light.

As his vision cleared he spotted a woman, no a girl, lying unconscious on the ground. He quickly checked if she was breathing. She appeared to be alive but still badly injured.

Her sleeveless (what?) shirt was nearly soaked all the way through with blood, her skin was shaded in red, splattered and streaked with drops and smears of crimson. He thought perhaps that most of the blood wasn't hers. In her right hand she clutched a long, dark wand; a silver chain hung around her neck, hidden underneath her shirt, resting between modest cleavage that still was quite inappropriate for daily wear.

When his gaze traveled up the length of her graceful neck, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that the girl’s face was lovely, if not stunning: heart-shaped face, small but slightly up-tilted, graced with a smattering of light freckles nose, full red lips. He could not decipher the color of her eyes since they were closed, but he thought they were dark. Her hair, though matted with blood, was obviously long and curly and some shade of brown.

The most intriguing, though, was a bright orange light that flared under her skin when he touched her hair.

“What a perfect end to a perfectly lousy day”, he muttered as he gathered the girl up returning to the castle.


	2. Meetings&Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wakes up in the Hospital wing and meets one certain Slytherin Prefect.

” _Forest... found... Injured...Headmaster...Inform...”,_ she heard several voices but it seemed so far away. Her heart sounded as though it was pounding unusually hard in her chest. As though _another_ _being_ heart was pulsing with her own. Twice as strong. It was both utterly frightening and terrific.

“Fawkes, what have you done?” she mentally groaned. A shock of hot energy resonated from her chest giving an uncomfortably painful sensation. She winced.

“Miss? Can you hear me?” a female voice asked her gently.

She slowly nodded and attempted to open her eyes. Everything was blurry for several seconds but she could make out a woman figure bending over her. She blinked several times clearing her vision slightly.

She looked up into the face that belonged to the voice. It was an older woman with petite frame, wispy hair and blue eyes. She was wearing standard wizarding nurse wardrobes: a peaked hat, a long darkish-red dress with puffed up sleeeves, a high starched collar and a white apron. All in all, she briefly reminded her Madam Pomfrey, though this woman seemed a bit older.

“Here, dear, it will help”. She thanked the woman as she uncorked the bottle and cautiously took a sip of the scarlet liquid she was given. _Probably_ , a  _Blood-Replenishing portion._ After a few more sips of a spicy portion she felt more alive and healthy than she had for the last six years. Of course, having spent almost every day either engaged in bloody battle or being tortured was not good for the young witch’s health. _Six bloody years. One big and pointless battle._

“How are you feeling, dear?” the mediwitch asked her. She could see clearly then and for the first time looked around, alarmingly noticing the familiarity of the place: lots and lots of beds with white sheets, privacy screens, and bedpans.

Her head spun with revelation. She was in the Hogwarts’ Hospital wing. That could not have been possible because the last time checked her Hogwarts was pretty much destroyed. That led her to conclusion that Fawkes had either sent them into alternative reality or thrust back in time. She suspected the latter. 

She felt her temper rising, a sick and burning feeling, and she tried to damp it. “Better”, she answered making sure her tone wasn’t hostile. What a stupid Phoenix bird. Why was she here? Her friends needed her help and she was stuck in Merlin-knows-what year in the past.

“I am sorry, madam, but you must understand how terribly confused I am right now. Could you, please, tell me the date?” Hermione asked quietly, meeting the matron's blue eyes as she turned to look at her.

”September, 23”, the matron answered and added quickly at the witch’s raised eyebrow, “1943”. Hermione scowled. It was almost _surreal. 60 bloody years in the past._ _Wait, that means Dumbeldore was very much alive. Probably not even Headmaster. 1943, 1943... Ah, yes, Dippet was Headmaster now. Old fool, missed the future Dark Lord’s dirty dealings under his nose. Speaking of which, Tom Riddle was currently in his sixth year._

Oh, the nerve of that bird - to send her right to the devil himself. _Brilliant, Fawkes. Just wonderful._ She wanted so desperately to scream bloody murder, but she didn’t. _Constant vigilance._ She needed a clear and sharp mind right now to come up with a perfect back-up story.

Unfortunately, she could not claim she was from France. Pretending to be a poor Beauxbatons student forced to be on the run from Grindelwald’s followers who murdered her family was too risky - though that would have been the easiest as she spoke French fluently- but there were some annoyingly _significant_ _details_ that could be easily verified. The implications of being exposed as a time-traveler would be _disastrous_. Chaos of epic proportions would follow. Even her proficient Occlumency skills would be useless. No, she needed something more _convincing_.

“Miss, you need to rest a bit”, the mediwitch said worryingly.

Hermione shook her head adamantly, looking at the mediwitch and already adopting her "bossy Granger" attitude. ”Madam”, she said to the older woman, “I assure you I am perfectly fine. I am immensely grateful for your job: most of my wounds are healed. But I can’t let myself just waste my time. Right now I do need to speak with Headmaster Dippet. It is awfully urgent. So could you please ask him to come here?”

“Of course, Miss ...?” “Hermione”. “Miss Hermione”, the matron let a small smile grace her face and turned towards the exit.

Now finally alone she needed to come up with a cover-up story. And that would be Koldovstoretz - the Russian school of witchcraft and wizardry, located somewhere nearby Leningrad (St. Petersburg), which was currently besieged by the Nazi German’s army. As far as she remembered, there was the “War on the Eastern Front,” known in the Soviet Union (Russia had been its member till 1991) as the “Great Patriotic War”.

However, the war was not only among the muggles’. Grindelwald was starting to gain influence in the Soviet Union too, threatening the former noble Russian wizarding families if they didn’t cooperate. Eventually his legions of "fanatics" launched several devastating attacks, committing mass-slaughter, and garnering international attention from wizarding authorities. Several of the attacks also drew the attention of the Muggle world, risking exposure and war. One of the most tragic happened on 9 August 1942. While the Germans tossed bombs in the city’s direction, prevented supplies from reaching the starving Leningrad’s population, one of the bombs was blown off-course magically directed towards the Koldovstoretz school. Many students had died, and those who had managed to stay alive had been forced to go on the run or join in Grindelwald’s army.

It would definitely sound convincing if she introduced herself as the Russian refugee, an almost-orphan girl outed from family and forced to fight for her own life. That would certainly explain her innumerable scars, she grimaced, and impeccable nonverbal and wandless magic skills (it’s not as if she had planned to hide them - Professors and, of course, Riddle would notice that and would be even more suspicious - so, no, thanks). Besides, her Russian was as good as French. She even didn’t have a distinctive foreign accent most English-speaking people did.

Now a surname. She struggled with the desire not to change her own, but ‘Granger’ wasn’t even close to a typical Russian surname, not to mention it was a muggle one. So she would be Hermione Anna Mary Gorchakova, the only heir of the Gorchakov princely family, old Russian pureblood line, that had an enduring reputation as one of the most influential and respected families before the Bolshevik dismantled the Tsarist autocracy.

She also decided she wouldn’t involve Dumbeldore in her affairs as long as possible. She didn’t want to disturb the timeline, moreover, she didn’t trust him anymore. She hadn’t forgiven him for his cowardice. He, as one of the greatest wizards she was lucky to be acquainted with, was too coward to fight Voldemort himself instead sending children fighting with that monster. She didn’t trust even that Dumbeldore but this Dumbeldore had no idea of what she had been through. She had watched her friends and family died around her as she struggled to come up with the answers – searching for anything that might help Harry.

For now, she must keep her cards close to her chest – it was a matter of survival. She wasn’t a perfect liar (all her emotions swirled so blatantly in her chocolate eyes), but she had learned how to maintain a blank face while telling people an utter lie. One must be pretty good at reading faces to accuse her of lying (She secretly hoped Tom Riddle was one not of those, but, of course, that would be too good to be true).

Besides, she didn’t feel safe here. In fact she felt even more on edge. With every second the very thought of being put sleep in the Hospital wing didn’t appeal to her. No one couldn't be allowed to find the shrunken bag that she had tucked into her bra. That old bag held items that hadn't been invented yet – an IPad, for instance; books which authors hadn't yet been born, invisibility cloak, the Marauders' Map, bottles of different portions (mostly Polyjuice, Felix Felicis and varying strength of Veritaserum), a tent, her old wand (She had been using Bellatrix wand for almost two years).

It also held muggles’ and wizarding modern clothing, including her old school uniform, photographs, jewelry and even a Kalashnikov rifle. About six thousand galleons (Harry’s and Ron’s inheritance), nine hundred thousand muggle dollars and old Black family heirlooms more than four million fifty thousand galleons worth were currently laying at the bottom of that little bag arranged neatly in a giant wooden chest.

In short, Hermione was richer than any other pureblood, especially considering the rate of inflation in both the wizarding and the Muggle world.

At least, I would be financially self-sufficient, she dryly thought. She tried to push herself up to a sitting position. Her body ached so badly, almost refusing to comply her. She knew it had something to do with her little trip here. She ignored the pain and tried again. This time successfully. Again she felt Fawkes’ fire flushed under her skin, but this time it was soothing, almost comforting.

She saw a shadow of another being near her. Instinct had her tensing, an offensive spell on the tip of her tongue, when she remembered where she was and her wand...

Wait, where exactly was her wand? She cursed herself for being such a moron. _Constant vigilance,_ she reminded herself. Though she didn’t really need a wand to fight and kill her opponent (6 years of intense practice and all), it had sort of calming effect on her. And the fact that it had been the Bellatrix wand made it even weirder and more frightening.

“You’d better rest right now. Those wounds must be dreadfully painful enough”.

She looked up, taking in a devilishly handsome young man with shiny black hair and darker-than-dark eyes. He had wide shoulders and chest, unnaturally pale skin and oh-so-kissable lips curved into a tiny smile. He shifted, and she saw that the metallic glint on his lapel came from a shiny silver and green Prefect badge. That Slytherin prefect was the epitome of beauty and perfection, but something about him was off. His smile was fake, his eyes were icily cold and his blank face revealed no emotion. To be honest, she was a little jealous of this flawed perfection. But even more she was intrigued.

“I’ve had worse”, she shrugged, “Besides, it’s not as if I’m going to die”. Never leaving his eyes off her he made his way over to her bed and settled on the edge of the mattress. Her eyes, sharp as an eagle's, tracked his movements. She did not trust him. “So what happened?”, he asked curiously while examining her minor scars on her arms and cleavage (particularly the one left but Dolohov’s curse) with a calculating gaze. They were relatively fresh and hadn’t healed well, over the last month since she'd received them. She tilted her head to the side, considering how to answer that kind of question and settling on the truth. “I take it you’ve heard of the wizard war that’s currently going on in the Soviet Union? How Grindelwald’s army’s beginning recruitment?”, she asked and at his nod of confirmation added, “Well, let’s just say I was its unfortunate participant”.

He didn’t respond, and it frustrated her that she couldn’t decipher his face. She stiffened as he began to reach for her left arm, which she had cradled to her chest. She remembered which scar was on that arm.

 _Mudblood_. She quickly put a nonverbal glamour charm and pulled it away from her chest. It appeared fuzzy, messy and overall passable enough to keep her greatest secret. No one must know about her muggle heritage this time around.

It was almost ironical that she, the brightest witch of her age, so bright that effortlessly casted the nonverbal Unforgivables, created her own dark spells, fluently spoke multiple languages, including Latin, Chinese, French, German, Russian, had defeateted and killed countless number of Death Eaters, the witch who might have given Voldemort one of the best fights of his life, if she was not interrupted by the certain bird (though she sensed The Battle with His Younger self coming) and that girl was a mere filthy Mudblood.

That was what the ugly scar, forever carved into her skin, said. She bit her lip so hard that the blood welled from it.

“What’s your name?” He suddenly asked, his smile charming, tone polite but eyes still unnervingly cold.

“Hermione Gorchakova. And yours?” She asked in return, trying to remember everything she knew about Hogwarts in 1943-1944. She could only remember the one name of a Slytherin Prefect and that was Him. 

“Tom”. She froze, her eyes one again met his as he stuck out a hand to shake,“Tom Riddle”.

“Fuck”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:  
> Koldovstoretz (Russian: колдовсторец) is the Russian wizarding school. Students from Koldovstoretz play a version of Quidditch where they fly on entire, uprooted trees instead of broomsticks.  
> Alexander Mikhailovich Gorchakov (Russian: Алекса́ндр Миха́йлович Горчако́в), (15 July 1798 – 11 March 1883) was a Russian diplomat and statesman from the Gorchakov princely family. He has an enduring reputation as one of the most influential and respected diplomats of the nineteenth century. He had been holding the post of the Minister of Foreign Affairs for 25 years and many of the victories of the Russian diplomacy are related with his name.


	3. Some Things Never Change

_November 25, 2002_

_Endless prairie of Kazakhstan_

_Hermione looks towards the heavens. Fluffy, well-defined clouds drift across the bright sky, and shafts of golden sunlight shoot through gaps in the clouds like enormous earthbound searchlights. No sign of rain, she sighs._

_For three hours that feel like eternity they have been riding to Okzhetpes cliff, “Inaccessible even to Arrows”. A very fitting name, she thinks, even Apparition doesn’t work in the endless Kokshetau steppe. There, according to the locals, lives a shaman woman and seer Aliya, whose powers, they say, one cannot not help but fear and admire._

_She hears a slow clop, clop of Draco’s horse behind her. She is tired and her body arches, and the lullaby of the horses’ hooves makes her want go to sleep. So she tries to keep her eyes open, staring at the horizon before her as though hoping that any time the Burabay breathtakingly beatiful mountains would magically emerge from the horizon. She brushes hair back from her face, leaving a streak of dust across her skin._

_“Malfoy”, she shouts, “how far do you think the mountains? Maybe we should rest, I think I might die if we don’t stop”._

_“Stop whining. You won’t die”, he shouts back, “I’m sure we will see the Burabay mountains by n... Oh my...Granger! It seems that we’ve literally got a tiger by the tail.” “What do you-”, she stops mid-sentence as she hears a loud, whooping roar somewhere behind her. It is deep, it reverberated, and it means only one thing - they are royally fucked._

_She turns her head and here it is: a human-like head, a lion's body, and a scorpion's tail. “Manticore”, her eyes widen with recognition. “Bloody hell!”, he pales, his right hand, holding the reins, is slightly shaking, “Granger, what did I say about the die part? I have to take that back”._

_“Don’t fret, ferret,_ I have an idea. I’ll bait, you play along! Take my bag, find the cursed blade”, she yells, _throwing her shrunken bag right into his arms and faces the manticore, “Hey, you beast, I am over here, come and get me!”, she challenges, jumping from her horse, and the manticore is hell second behind her, its yellow eyes glaring and its white teeth exposed in a ferocious snarl._

_It lunges towards Hermione, pinning her to the ground. She doesn’t hesitate and leaps forward, cutting off the beast’s tongue. The manticore wails and thrashes._ _Letting out a horrendous screech, it knocks into her once again, tail darts forward, stinging her left foot. Ignoring the excruciating pain, she hisses, “Malfoy, hurry up...”._

_Finally having found the blade, Malfoy jumps nimbly from his horse onto the manticore’s back, severing the tip of its tail with one sharp swing of the knife, and then stabbs the mighty weapon down its spine. The manticore falls to the ground, its powerful body writhing in its death throes._

_Despite the constant pain in his foot, she finds herself saying, “Always just in time”. Malfoy curses under his breath, peering in her wounds, muttering healing spells all the while in a bitter, angry tone._

_He signs, this is not the first mess she has pulled them into, nor will it be the last._

_As the sun sets, they manage to arrive at the village disguised on the foot of the Okzhetpes cliff, with a peak resembling an elephant calf. It looks less than a and more like a sculpture. Like the hands of an artist have touched this place and turned it into a rocky wonderland._

_A surly old man meets them waving towards the lonely squat tent - yurt, the locals calls it. When she steps inside the yurt with Malfoy’s help, Aliya is performing some kind of ritual, qurban, she later finds out. Hermione notices that Aliya never uses a wand during the process, but when she asks her about it, Aliya only smiles peculiarly, “You will feel it when the times comes”._

_Many believe Aliya to be one of the oldest baksy in Kazakhstan. A 605 year-old witch first had prophetic visions at the age of 11, and they led her, after thousands of miles on foot, to Zhumbaktas cliff also known as Riddle stone, resembling a mysterious sphinx with severe fearless features. According to her, it's a place of powerful cosmic energy, one that allows to “free magic” and “cure all mental and physical illnesses”. Hermione doubts the stone’s ability at first, but the minute she touches it, she feels her magic swirling around her, caressing her body. Her wound is immediately healed, though the scar will probably stay with her for much longer. But it doesn’t matter. She feels like she no longer needs the restraining wand, and for the first time in her live she feels as free as air - exhilarating, spellbinding._

_They practice with Aliya her healing spells, who also teaches them how to control their free-wheeling, booming powers. Needless to say, nonverbal and wandless magic become second nature to both of them._

_  
September 23, 1943_

_Hogwarts, Hospital Wing_

“Fuck”, she muttered quietly. Really that word pretty much summarized the whole mess the bird had gotten her into. Not only she was stuck in the1940s, but also had to deal with this more human (at least, it seemed so) and, she had to admit, handsome version of a madman.

What’s that Muggles’ saying? Out of the frying pan into the fire.

Riddle cleared his throat, “Excuse me?”. Ah. He might have heard her cursing.

She stiffened, adopting an expression of polite disinterest, affected boredom, and coolness, à la I-am-Draco-Malfoy-and-you-mean-less-than-nothing-to-me, “You are excused. Now would you be so kind as to leave me alone for a while. I need to get my thoughts in order, besides, Headmaster is bound to come any minute. I suppose you don’t want to witness this boring interrogation”.

Though the Dark Lord must have been disgruntled to be simply dismissed, he never showed it, instead giving her a beautifully charming smile that was so fake that she wanted to hex it right off his face.

Holding his stare was like falling into the darkness of an ocean, limitless as far as the eye could see. They would flash with something she couldn’t quite comprehend - annoyance, ire, anger? - she found it nearly impossible to look away.

“I hope we’ll be seeing each other again, Ms Gorchakova”, he replied finally, in a slow drawl that echoed in her head.

“Oh, it is highly likely”, she purred, “it seems that I am stuck here for now”. With a soft whoosh of air he was gone, and the door shut quietly behind him. She continued to stare at it.

She didn’t know how much time passed, before it opened to reveal a painfully familiar face. Same old Dumbldore. Though not quite old.

His beard was a few inches shorter, his hair was bright auburn and face lacked several lines. He made his way towards her bed and sat in the chair by her side.

“Miss Hermione, I has just been made aware of the unusual circumstances of your sudden arrival. I am Professor Dumbledore, the Deputy Headmaster. Unfortunately, Headmaster Dipper is currently having a meeting with the Minister for Magic, so it is my duty to-”, Dumbledore said, leaning forward, his tone deceptively light and kind, the twinkle in his eyes probably a sign of scheming and, of course, imminent Legilimency.

The nerve of the man! He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. Feeling her walls falling, she decided to counterattack. Turning her offensive technique into defensive, she delved into his mind, catching a glimpse of his thoughts. She saw the surprise flick across his face. Oh, that he certainly didn’t see coming.

“Professor Dumbledore, don’t you think it is a little inappropriate to dig into the young lady’s head? But since that particular method didn’t work out maybe we can try things the other way around?”, she said with a clear mocking exasperation in her voice. He pursed his lips, his blue eyes no longer twinkled, “It seems pointless to argue with you, Miss Hermione, but I don’t trust easily, I’m afraid. Would you be amendable to being asked a couple of questions under Veritaserum then?”

Oh, she wouldn’t mind at all. She had long ago developed immunity to all but strongest portions, the ones that had not been invented by this century. It wouldn’t do to let that minor detail slip, though.

“Professor, I assure you, I do not pose any threat to Hogwarts or any of its inhabitants, but if you want to be sure, test me with Veritaserum, by all means”, she responded, respectfully bowing her head.

She watched carefully as he produced a vial from the pocket robes. She took it her hand and tossed the contents back. She felt the eagerness to answer any question asked, but pulling herself together, isolated this feeling in her mind. Dumbledore gave her a tight smile and began his interrogation.

\- What is your full name? - Hermione Anna Mary Gorchakova. Pureblood.

\- When and where were you born? - Leningrad, Soviet Union. 19th September, 1925.

\- What is your purpose here? How did you get past the castle’s anti-Apparition wards?

\- I don’t remember much, sir. Everything was blurred...There was a woman, it seems, she gave me a portkey... I was... Professor, you must understand, I’ve been on the run from Grindelwald for more than a year now, since the attack on my school, Koldovstoretz. All this time I spent fighting for my life, I have nowhere to go, my parents are killed. If it’s not too much, Professor, I just ask for Hogwarts protection, a place to stay. I really don’t wish to inflict harm on its inhabitants. Lies, lies, screamed her mind. She wished, badly wished Riddle’s head on a platter. Smartly, she remained silent about her inner most desires.

He pondered something for a moment, then nodded, seeming to believe in her act of an innocent orphan. (Who is a bad actress now, Malfoy?)

“I am sorry, Miss Gorchakova for your using the portion on you, but I must be sure about the purity of your intentions. Though I can see it in your eyes that you are not the kind of person who takes pleasure in hurting another beings”, he said looking sad.

Oh, you have no idea, she thought, leaning father back against her pillows.

Folding his hands in his lap, he continued, “You’ve been through a lot, my dear, and the least we can offer you is Hogwarts’ protection and education.You seem like a bright young lady to me, but you will have to sit your exams tomorrow before we sort you into your house. I’ll check on you in the morning. Hopefully, Headmaster Dipper, will be back by then”.

He stood up, straightening his robes, turned towards the exit. “Thank you, Professor Dumbledore”, she said, smiling fondly, as he left.

Some things, she thought, just didn’t change with time, like Dumbledore’s suspicious and manipulative, but kind and compassionate nature. Same old Dumbledore, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finally back! I’m not sure how often I’ll update it, but I promise you, this story is not abandoned.  
> P.S. What do you think of these little flashbacks at the beginning? I’m planning to add some in the following chapters to give a story a little bit more of the foundation.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you liked that. This is my first fanfic, so please forgive me if have any typos. If you want to point out any mistake (constructive criticism is always welcome) or just rant about it, please comment down below.  
> Thanks for reading)


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